by Diane Haeger
There would be no choice but to hold her head up and endure it.
Not if she meant to stay at the theater, and pay her own way.
Watching the rehearsal, they sat in the back of the theater, beneath the upper tier, in an overhang of seats in which the noble class viewed performances. Both Ogle and Buckhurst were dressed for an evening out, wearing long, curled periwigs, feather-trimmed hats, coats decorated with looped ribbon, and breeches to the knee. The actors were running through their lines before them on the stage as two men hung a large curtain in preparation for one of the scenes.
“I was such a fool!” Buckhurst murmured as Nell entered and spoke her first line.
“On that much we agree,” said Ogle.
“I haven’t a clue what I was thinking, treating her that way, as if she would be around forever.” It was the same sentiment he had muttered all the way from Newmarket, and Thomas Ogle knew what he was expected to say next.
“You weren’t thinking. You were drinking. A bit of fun cost you the most celebrated girl in London.”
“I am an utter, daft fool!”
“You did rather make a mess of things.”
“I must apologize. I want her back, and she has got to know it.”
“She looks awfully content up there.”
“What’s that life compared to the one I can give her?”
“Dependable, I should say, to begin with. You don’t mean to marry the girl after all, do you?”
“I don’t know that I wouldn’t,” Buckhurst hedged, opening a small silver snuffbox and pressing a bit into his left nostril. “I haven’t actually thought that far ahead.”
“We don’t, our kind, do we—”
Buckhurst glanced at him sharply.
“—think well ahead of the moment, or marry girls like that,” Ogle amended.
“I don’t know that I mightn’t.” Buckhurst was now looking dead ahead again, watching Nell’s every move on the stage. “You said yourself she was different.”
“Different certainly does not mean suitable as the wife of a Sackville.”
“Probably not. But I want her all the same, and you know perfectly well I’ve had a lifetime of getting what I want. I am not prepared to lose now.”
He flicked his friend’s shoulder in a false show of bravado, but as he stood and prepared to move toward the stage, he felt a hand clamp tightly onto his shoulder to stop him. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a square jaw and intense dark eyes said, “There is someone outside who wishes a word with you, my lord.”
“Not now, my good man,” Buckhurst responded, trying to break free of the man’s iron grip.
The bigger man would not let go. “The Duke of Buckingham, sir, is desirous of your company.”
“I don’t care if it’s the ruddy king of England himself! I am engaged just now.”
The man led Buckhurst then, quite against his will, and very forcefully, from the theater, and out into the street, where a large black coach with six horses on silver harnesses waited.
The coach door was pulled back by a stone-faced liveried footman, and Buckhurst was pressed with a single short thrust up the steps and inside the large and luxurious coach. Tucked inside, on the far end of the studded black-leather seat, the Duke of Buckingham sat, his hand on the ivory knob of a walking stick, and he stared straight ahead. Charles Sackville had always found George Villiers cold-blooded. Whatever this summons was about, he knew it could not be good. He sank onto the edge of the seat facing Buckingham, and waited, determined not to speak first for what it might cost him if he did.
“The king wishes to bestow a great honor upon you, Buckhurst,” Buckingham announced without ceremony, and without changing the direction of his gaze. There was a slight pause before he added, “You are to leave for Paris as His Majesty’s personal emissary.”
“Paris? Good Lord, why me?”
“Because your sovereign wishes it. In light of that, you would be wise to see it as the honor it is, complying swiftly and quietly.”
Buckhurst leaned forward, surprise still on his face. “I do appreciate the honor, but it is simply not the best time—”
The duke, resplendent in his gleaming blond periwig and jeweled hands, looked fully at Lord Buckhurst for the first time. His expression was cold. “I do believe, my lord, that you do not quite take my meaning. This is not a request.”
“Am I being exiled, then? Punished for something?”
The duke rolled his eyes and let out an irritated sigh. “Leave it to a wastrel to see the king’s largesse as punishment. The situation with the French is a delicate one after the Dutch wars, as I am sure you are aware. You shall be in France to express the king’s regrets to King Louis over the illness of his son, the dauphin. Also, while there, you shall collect from His Majesty’s sister a covert report on the state of relations, and see it brought back to England.”
“But I am not a spy!” Buckhurst was on the edge of the seat now, hands curled around the edges of the plush black leather. “Or a diplomat, for that matter. I am, as you said, a wastrel!”
“Apparently, His Majesty sees something more in you. It is an opportunity to better yourself, boy, and your rapidly declining reputation. You would be wise to seize your bit of good fortune in this and be grateful.”
Buckhurst glanced through the fogged coach window, back to the wide stone steps leading up to the King’s Theater, and Nell. It was a crossroads, yet there was only one road open for him to take. “Very well, then. But I’ve someone back inside to speak with first.”
“There isn’t time for that. The king’s barge is waiting to take you to Dover tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“You leave at once.”
He glanced at the stairs again. Nell would never forgive him. She would never understand how dear she had become to him, or how, in following her back to London, he had hoped to improve himself because of her. He considered that for a moment. Perhaps it was better this way? Perhaps in France he actually could make a real man of himself? He would lose Nell, of course. But she would not have him as he was now anyway.
He looked back at the duke. It felt like a contrivance, this honor, though for the life of him he could not imagine the benefit to anyone in being rid of him. As the coach pulled forward with a little jerk onto Drury Lane, and away from Nell Gwynne, Charles Sackville wondered for a moment if he would ever know the real reason why he was being so swiftly spirited out of London.
The king was playing tennis when Buckingham returned to Whitehall from Drury Lane. The duke stood to the side, arms crossed over his chest, watching the sovereign volley the ball across the court to his son, Monmouth. Charles’s superior athletic skill still made Buckingham angry. He struggled at everything the king did with ease. Especially the getting of women. Not just the easy marks brought up the back stairs by Chiffinch, but with real, sensual, thinking women, as Castlemaine in the early days had been. Or his early love, Monmouth’s mother, Lucy Walters, before her.
Castlemaine had only ever slept with him to make the king jealous. George knew that. It had not made the competition any less fierce. But what the king wished was always the priority. It was everyone’s priority. And so now, too, this morning at the theater, Buckingham had acted on behalf of his sovereign. Even if he had not yet revealed the scope of his plans for Nell. After all, King Charles may be the superior athlete, but who could argue, he wondered, with his own vastly superior mind? Who else would ever think to replace the powerful Castlemaine with a hungry young actress who could so easily be molded by the person wise enough to install her?
“Ah, George!” the king called out with a friendly wave.
The match was suddenly over in mid volley. He took an embroidered towel from the tray held by a waiting page, daubed the sweat from his face, then tossed it at the servant as he approached his old friend. “So, then? Was he amenable?”
“Of course, Your Majesty. What good servant of the king would not humbly comply with so great an
honor?”
“Oh, cease the flattery, George, it doesn’t suit you. He had Nell to himself. That alone would be reason enough to hang on to the cliffs of Dover by his thumbnails.”
“Not every man appreciates a diamond in the rough as Your Majesty does.” Buckingham nodded decorously. “You saw for yourself how he behaved at Newmarket.”
“So she’s back at work at the theater?”
“As it happens, she’s preparing to perform this very afternoon.”
“And Hart. Tell me, George, does he wish her return to his bed?”
“My spies tell me the old fellow does not handle rejection at all well. Hart has told anyone who will listen that he hopes she dies a miserable death in this new play, and he hasn’t said he meant a figurative demise, either.”
Charles smiled and walked in long-legged strides away from the tennis court and back toward the stairway to his private apartments as Buckingham, and everyone else, struggled to keep the same sure pace. “Marvelous.” The king smiled again.
“The road does seem paved, should Your Majesty desire to take it.”
“For now, I suddenly wish to go to the theater. See it arranged, would you, Georgie?”
“Of course, sire. As I see to every wish on your behalf.”
Yes, indeed, thought Buckingham. He may not be named chancellor yet. But thanks to their enduring friendship, he was still the second most powerful man in England, no matter his lack of title. It was he who really had full control of everyone’s destiny, particularly the destiny of Nell Gwynne.
Chapter 14
…TO THE KING’S PLAYHOUSE AND THERE SAW THE INDIAN EMPEROR; WHERE I FIND NELL COME AGAIN, WHICH I AM GLAD OF, BUT WAS MOST INFINITELY DISPLEASED WITH HER BEING PUT TO ACT THE EMPEROR’S DAUGHTER, WHICH IS A GREAT AND SERIOUS PART, WHICH SHE DOTH MOST BASELY.
—The Diary of Samuel Pepys
NELL felt the old familiar butterflies fluttering against the wall of her stomach as she stood waiting behind the curtain for her cue, her hand steadied on the swagged strip of fringed velvet, the candle lamps bright and dancing before her.
The play was dreadful.
It was not a comedy, at which she had so shined, but an overly dramatic tragedy. In a scene suspiciously convenient for him, Hart was killed off in the early part of the first act. Nell was left to soldier on by herself, weeping and hand-wringing. Her costume was scarlet velvet; her hair was tamed back tightly and fitted into a mock crown of rubies. No pratfalls or ribald jokes were possible. The play was tailor-made for Charles Hart to have revenge, and it was the worst possible return to the stage for a comedic star. Nell glanced into the flickering golden glare of the stage lamps, feeling her throat seize up. A full house. She felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter. She drew in a very large breath to calm her racing heart. What was the first line? Then, at what could not have felt a worse moment, she glanced up at the royal box and saw the king. In the next instant, she heard her cue, and was ushered onto the stage.
The ovation and whistles of welcome were raucous and sustained, and Nell fought a smile. This was, she remembered, a serious moment in the play. “My father is dead,” she declared, trying to force dramatic tears to her eyes.
Four dandies in the front of the pit began to laugh.
“Did he die of boredom with this play?” a man called out amid growing laughter, though in the bright lamplight she could not see him.
She delivered another line, her dread growing.
“Aw, give us a laugh, Nelly!” someone called out from the back of the pit.
She heard the splat of an orange onstage, and was relieved to be joined by Hart’s mistress, Mary Knepp, who was to play her nurse. But it did not matter. It was nothing like the other times she had been onstage, cheered and adored. This, the papers would say, was a disaster.
Nell made it through the play by sheer will. As she moved to her place behind the curtain for the final time, her body was awash in perspiration. Half the pit had cleared out during the final scene, and they had not gone quietly. There was more tossed fruit. More jeers. And when she had looked up, the king, as well, was gone from his box. She sank onto her stool in the tiring-room, wanting to sink into the core of the earth, when Richard Bell gently touched her shoulder. “Come now,” he said with a half smile. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“No, it was much worse.”
He waited for a moment as she looked up at his reflection behind hers in the mirror. He would not lie to her further. Their friendship was too strong for that. “All right, it was not good. But there’s always the next play. You must think ahead to that.”
“After today, I’ll be lucky if anyone in London will give me another chance.”
She took her time walking back to the Cock & Pye, meandering from Drury Lane to Maypole Alley, where she bought a leg of mutton and some cheese for dinner. She wanted desperately to avoid the expectation she knew she would see on Rose’s face when she returned.
Just as she turned to go into the tavern, a painted sign on iron swinging above, two men emerged toward her from the shadows cast by the jutting roof of the house next door. Nell turned with a start, feeling a jolt of panic, until she recognized one of them. The Duke of Buckingham.
He was dressed like a common butcher or tailor, someone who actually belonged, like her, in this low place. He wore no periwig or fine buckle shoes, but rather a brown linen hat pulled low, a buff-colored shirt and plain buttoned doublet, and buskins, as the other man did.
“There is someone who would like a word with you,” Buckingham said as the king himself, equally disguised, emerged from the same shadows.
She felt herself smile at the absurdity of the entire scene. But the three men seemed to be taking enormous pleasure in their charade.
“Say you will have supper with me.”
“Oh, I don’t think dinin’ with a king is a very good idea. Too much attention I don’t need just now when I’m tryin’ to get back to work.”
“And if, by a rather clever disguise, I were not a king, and were to bring along a friend, would it be a good idea then?”
“No less than three friends would do.”
“I am not usually required to bargain with the fairer sex. But I find that you are a force with which to be reckoned.”
“I’ll not be taken lightly by Your Majesty just because I ’aven’t come from anythin’, if you’ve got that in mind,” she warned, trying to be serious, but still utterly charmed by him.
He gathered up both of her hands and pressed a lingering kiss gently onto them. “Who in their right mind would take you lightly?”
“It would be nice to be appreciated. But only just for supper.” She was thinking of Moll Davies. And survival. Moll may have a king’s house, and a royal child, but if he was not fully tired of her, he soon would be, and then she would be alone. That much was clear enough as he looked at Nell with his best rakish smile.
“Two, these two, and it’s agreed.” He pressed her hands against the length his chest with a humorously dramatic flourish.
The king of England, his brother, the Duke of York, and the Duke of Buckingham led Nell to Bridges Street, and into the back of the Rose Tavern. The savory aroma of roasting meat was very strong inside the warm place. They took a large plank table behind a red swagged curtain. The click of snuffboxes and the roar of raucous laughter and continuous conversation was loud, making the little party all but invisible.
Buckingham sat across from her, the king beside her, the Duke of York on her other side. She had only met the king’s brother this evening, but she liked him. James was not so tall or handsome, and he was more round at the middle than Charles, but he had an honest face.
“Juniper ale all ’round,” Buckingham called to the innkeeper. Turning to Nell, he added, “It’s famous for curing whatever might ail you, from rheumatism to palsy, and even your digestion.”
“But can it quench your thirst?”
Everyone laughed. She knew the king liked her clever tongue
, and so she had decided to say whatever came into her mind.
As platter after platter of roast lamb, rich oysters, and the king’s favorite, pigeon pie, arrived, Nell’s cup was continuously filled, until everything seemed particularly humorous. Amid the laughter and rapid banter, Nell felt herself begin to relax. She enjoyed the elevated company; Charles had an easygoing manner, a wicked sense of humor, and a bold zest for life.
“So, Nell,” James said. “How did you find our little town of Newmarket?”
“I found it quite by accident, Your Grace, and paid dearly for my lack of direction. Sadly, I suspect I’ll go on payin’, so long as Mr. ’Art ’as any control at ’Is Majesty’s theater.”
Glances darted nervously back and forth as the men tried to discern how serious she was.
“Ah, splendid!” Buckingham announced, pointing across the room. “A game of dice!”
At another table, around which both men and women were crowded, some of them were beginning to toss down coins for betting.
“Shall we?” he said to York, clearly wanting to give the king time alone with Nell. As they began to stand and brush crumbs from their waistcoats, the innkeeper returned, asking payment for the enormous and costly meal.
For Nell’s sake, they had carried the ruse fully forward, wearing costumes with no pockets or satchels. In the shadow of a request for money, the king glanced at Buckingham. “Well, pay the man, George.”
